Brushstrokes
by lilyrose225
Summary: 100 years was a long time to wait for the little artist, who now could not paint her anymore.


_Hello! This is my first Okami fanfiction, so I hope it sounds okay to everyone._

_Warnings: Spoilers if you haven't traveled through the Spirit Gate and came back yet. If you've beaten the "True Form" then you should know what I'm talking about. Also, there is one curse word, and mentions of blood. (hence the "T" rating)_

Brushstrokes

The brush danced easily across the canvas, tracing out the lines and curves needed to define the strokes to come, its movement much like the graceful battle dance of the subject.

The artist sighed. He hadn't meant to paint her, not at this time of the year, and certainly not today. 100 years had not weakened his affection for the goddess, nor dimmed his longing to travel with the furry lupine again. He missed his friend.

The shoulders and body were finished.

Even after all this time, he still could not believe she was dead. He had traveled after she was gone for years on end, as the 6th Celestial Envoy, telling and teaching everyone about how she'd defeated the forces of darkness, Orochi's minions.

He finished her legs.

It was amazing, how much she did with the Celestial Brush. Water flowed, enabling fertile and lush vegetation to sprout up all over evil-ravaged land. Fire and wind swept away all demonic traces. Slowing down time, she would dodge any blow and deliver three in return, then freeze the life out of the demons.

It was even more amazing, or more like horrifying, how she had died.

He added the last strokes to the wings on her legs and back, saving her head and Divine Instrument for last.

Scores and scores of demons, traps everywhere, even the destruction of nature never hurt the brilliant white goddess. She was saddened, yes, by Orochi's casual stealing of human lives, but all of these instances only fueled her rage and desire to destroy him, to rend his awful heads from his gigantic body, and dispel forever his evil curses.

The artist sighed, and with a sort of definitive air about him started to lightly trace out the features of the wolf's unfinished face with his finger. Her face and Divine Instrument were always the hardest for him to paint. In fact, he'd only gotten them right once since she had died. He picked up his brush, praying to all of the gods that this would be the time. One hundred years, one hundred attempts, one a year, and each a failure. He dipped his brush into the ink, dipping, as he did so, into his memories of her face when he'd last successfully painted her, bloodied and with a broken back, in Kamiki Village.

Even wounded, she was perfect. Though dying of blood loss, the thick crimson liquid spreading throughout her painfully brilliant white coat, she was still a shining bright light cutting through the pre-dawn darkness, infused with the Faith of the villagers.

It was despicable, just despicable! The artist dashed ink across the canvas, no longer paying meticulous attention to where the splattered drops went. He slashed impatiently at the canvas, uncaring through his despair and rage what colors he used or what happened to his painting.

Damn that Orochi and his dirty tricks! And Nagi as well! He did no saving that dreadful night; she did. It was his fault as well as that demon's that the goddess was dead! If he hadn't been standing under that rock she wouldn't have sacrificed herself to save him. And then, even after she had opened the jaws of Death, he stood there, as if it was the most natural thing in the world that Sun Goddesses got crushed by falling boulders.

_Yes,_ the artist thought bitterly. _It's their fault she died, and I haven't been able to paint correctly since. And now I've ruined another canvas thinking about it._

He was just about to tear up the canvas and burn it when he looked at it. **Really looked**at it, not just giving it another of his glances to see where the ink was going.

His mouth dropped open as he gazed at a perfect rendition of Amaterasu, shining with holy light. She was in her battle position, ready to strike, Solar Flare raised up off of her back and the Tundra Beads circling around her neck. Her face was exactly how it haunted him in his dreams, the wolfish grin of amusement tempered by a challenge to see who the better artist was, expecting at any moment for her tiny companion to become outraged that she would suggest he could not draw. And her eyes burned with the intensity of the sun, bright amber specks surrounding coal-black pupils.

The artist wiped tears out of his eyes, remembering happy days in Shinshuu Field cavorting under her emblem, the sun, and defeating demons together. He also remembered her patience, her willingness to wait for Nagi as long as it took, just by that prophet Waka's instruction.

"I shall never doubt you again, Amaterasu. As long as it takes for me to regain my drawing talent, I will wait."

As if in response, a howl echoed out, a victory call very familiar to the Poncle artist. Ishaku turned his head in the direction of Shinshuu Field, knowing that Orochi's return was ended and that soon, his home of Kamui would be free of the curse at the hands of his friend.

Ishaku remembered another thing he was told, right after Amaterasu's death in Kamiki. _"Ma Chérie is tough. Remember this, artist; as long as the world lasts, the sun will always rise."_

"Waka was right. And it did rise. But, why did it take you a hundred years? I'm so old now."

Ishaku smiled, rolling up the precious canvas, shaking his head as he did so.

_A/N: If you liked it, please do me a favor and review. If you didn't, review to tell me why. If you're lazy, well that's your problem._

_Thanks for reading._


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